


A Birthday for Alfred

by INKQueen



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday, Drabble, Ficlet, Fluff, celebration, it's just cute okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 10:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INKQueen/pseuds/INKQueen
Summary: Bruce thinks he's finally figured out when Alfred's birthday is. All the kids have an idea for a present. Turns out, they all want to give the same gift. Kitchen mayhem ensues. Inspired by The Seven Silly Eaters by Mary Ann Hoberman. Originally posted on Tumblr, putting it up here.





	A Birthday for Alfred

Bruce Wayne had been trying to figure out the date of Alfred Pennyworth’s birthday for years, and he had a new guess, based on some documents that had just arrived on his doorstep from England. Alfred was a difficult man to research, in part due to Bruce’s own efforts to keep his butler protected.

He stopped Dick on his way out the door with a hand on his shoulder.

“I have a new date. We’ll go out tomorrow,” he muttered, leaning close to Dick’s ear. Dick nodded.Within minutes, every member of the Bat family received a text. It said only this:

_Bruce has a new date. We go out tomorrow._

Damian spent all day thinking of what he could possibly do for Pennyworth on his birthday. The man was his second father.

In the dead of night, he snuck into Alfred’s kitchen. The plan would have to be conducted under cover of darkness if he was to go undiscovered.

He was creeping past the first row of cupboards when he ran into something large, soft and warm. He hissed in alarm and stumbled back a few steps in the dark.

“Ouch! Who’s there?” A voice whispered.

“Todd?”

Demon brat? What’re you doing down here?”

“I am preparing for Pennyworth’s birthday. What’re _you_ doing in here?”

“Same as you.”

“Excellent, having someone here who knows their way around an oven. You will assist me Todd.”

A quiet snort. “Sure.”

“Excellent. Hand me the flour.”

“Hold on, it’s --”

There were fast footsteps, a hushed squeak and the sound of a bag of flour falling to the floor.

“Todd? Was that you?”

“No.”

“It was me.”

“Steph?”

“Yep.”

“And me!” A fourth excited whisper added from near the doorway.

“Grayson?”

“Yeah. You guys must’ve had the same idea I did.”

“Yeah, but now most of the flour is on the floor, thanks Steph.”

“Sor-ry, but did you get most of it in the bowl?”

A gentle _whoomf_ and Steph sneezed.

“Yes, but now it’s mixed with your snot, blondie,” Jason deadpanned quietly. “Did you come in here just to make a mess?”

There was the sound of Steph’s fist making contact with a shoulder.

“OW!”

“Oops! Tim, when did you get there?”

“Just now. I was gonna make something for Alfred, but I wouldn’t have come down if I knew I was going to get punched.”

There was the sound of cursing and scuffing at the doorway again.

“Babs?” Dick stage whispered somewhere off to the left.

“Yeah, and the wheelchair plus the dark isn’t a good combo. Tell me, why exactly we’re all trying to do this in the dark? Let me just get the light.”

“No!” Damian whispered sharply. “For all we know, Pennyworth could sleep in one of the cupboards. He could see the light and this should be a surprise.”

Tim snorted from the other side of Jason. “I don’t think Alfred sleeps in the cupboard.”

“What do you know, Drake. How many time have you seen him magically appear in the kitchen.”

Preposterous as it was, nobody argued. There was simply no denying the powers of Alfred Pennyworth.

“Okay, so lights stay off,” Dick murmured. “If we do this as a team, I think we can make this work.”

“ _If we all work as a team_ , maybe I’ll start shitting rainbows,” Jason mocked.

“Bite me, Jay.”

Whatever you say, Dickiebird.”

“Wait! I have an idea! What if you used the fridge light? It’s not as bright!” Steph piped up.

“Sure, let’s try it.”

There were the sounds of Steph’s shuffling steps, a gasp and a thump.

“That’s me Steph.”

“Sorry Tim.”

“Punched and now bowled over. This is why we broke up, you’re always beating me up.”

“Firstly, rude. Second, where the heck in the fridge?”

“It’s over here by me I think,” Dick answered.

Another bang and some swearing.

“I don’t really appreciate being tripped on.”

“Sorry Barbara.”

“Grayson, open the fridge so we can get some light,” Damian ordered.

“Okay, I got it.”

There was the suction noise of the fridge opening, but no light came out.

“Dang, I guess the bulb must have died,” Dick reported

“If only we’d worked as a team--”

“Shut up, Jay.”

“I’m the only one here who can bake, so you should all be helping me,” Jason countered.

“Excuse me, I’m an excellent baker,” Babs pointed out.

“Yeah, but you can’t even reach the counters in here, so --”

Babs gasped and Tim hissed, and the darkness was thick with tension. Jason had taken it too far, and he knew it too.

“Babs, look --”

The was an almighty SLAP.

“Thank you for doing that, Tim,” Dick whispered darkly.

“Wasn’t me. You, Demon Brat?”

Damian shook his head, then remembered that the others couldn’t see him. “It was not me.”

“And Steph is over here with me, so…” Dick trailed off.

“And it wasn’t me since, apparently, I can’t reach,” Barbara whispered savagely.

“I’m sorry, Babs. That was way out of line,” Jason mumbled.

Babs huffed softly.

“Wait… then who hit Jason?” Tim asked.

Silence fell as everyone did the math.

“Cass?” Dick asked the dark room.

There came a small, satisfied hum from on top of the island counter.

“Thank you Cass,” Babs whispered gently.

“Wait, are we all here?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I thought Cass was out on patrol.”

“Well, I thought you were out on patrol, Tim, but here we are.”

“You’re supposed to be out on patrol too, Dick.”

“Clearly, none of us are on patrol --”

“Then who’s patrolling Gotham?”

Silence fell.

“... Just Bruce then?”

“Yep.”

“... Alone?”

“Yep.”

“Does _he_ know none of us are out on patrol like we said we would be?”

“... Probably not.”

“Okay.”

“Well, since we’re all here,” Dick suggested, “I think if we can each find a different ingredient and bring them to the island…”

“Good call,” Tim responded. “Jason, what do you need?”

“Er, well I’ve already got the flour out and one bowl, but I need another big bowl for the wet ingredients --”

“I got it!” Steph whispered enthusiastically.

“Babs, could you find the sugar for me?”

“Fine.” There came the squeaking of turning wheels.

“Thank you.”

“Hmph.”

“Dick, could you bring the eggs?”

“Yeah, hang on.”

“And turn on the oven when you’re done so it can preheat. Tim can you dig out the hand blender? And Damian, the vanilla and the cream of tartar are in one of the top cabinets with the spices.”

Damian hopped up on the counter and scooted down several cabinets, before standing on his tiptoes to dig around on the top shelf.

“Hey Jason,” Steph whispered, “where does Alfred keep the other bowls?”

“How should I know, he’s changed the layout since I cooked in here last,” Jason retorted, his tone regaining some of its trademark vitriol.

“I found a whole set, hang on --”

There was a huge clatter and several people _shhhh_ -ing.

“That’s me again Steph.”

“Sorry Timmy. Can you help me pick up the bowls?”

“Really Brown,” Damian whispered smugly over his shoulder, “how can you have so little awareness of your surround--”

Damian was cut off by the sharp rap of a glass spice bottle falling on his head from the shelf he was digging around in. He held his breath, waiting for the crash.

It didn’t come, just a small _plop._

“Um. Why is there cinnamon in my lap?” Barbara’s voice asked from directly below him.

“Apologies, Gordon. Would you take that to Todd since you have it?”

“Wait, why do I need cinnamon for a chocolate cake?” Jason’s voice echoed across the room.

Silence fell for a moment.

“Since when are we making a chocolate cake? I thought we were doing vanilla?” Tim asked.

“No, I’m making chocolate,” Jason replied.

“Then why did you ask Demon Brat to get the vanilla?”

“Because vanilla extract is just something that goes in cakes!”

“But vanilla’s simpler, we should just do that.”

“No, we’re doing strawberry,” Stephanie insisted from somewhere else.

“That’s ridiculous, Brown, who makes strawberry cake? Besides, since it is a special gift, I plan on presenting a traditional middle eastern recipe taught to me by a my mother’s personal chef. That’s why we need the cinnamon.”

“Hang on,” Barbara piped up, “Damian, if we’re planning on doing a speciality here, then I should do a red velvet cake. You’re not even doing the baking.”

“I want to do strawberry!” Steph protested.

“I’m just making chocolate cake!” Jason said adamantly.

“Well, than I’M going to make strawberry!”

There was more clattering.

“Steph, give me that bowl back!”

“No!”

“Look, Jay, it’s not hard to go from a chocolate to a red velvet, just let me --”

“I want to prepare a special gift for Pennyworth, it was my idea, just give me the batter --”

“It wasn’t just _your_ idea, Demon Brat.”

Everyone converged on the island.

“Look, guys, if you all feel so strongly, I’m sure everyone can make their own cake.”

“I’m not so sure Dick. There’s not really enough ingredients to go around.”

There was a moment where that sank in. Then there was suddenly a mad rush for the supplies.

“Give me that Todd!”

“No way Demon Brat!”

“Tim, be a dear and pass --”

“Nah-ah, I’m not getting dragged into this --”

“Yeah, Timmy pass it to me instead!”

“Give it back!”

The wet slap of mixing and a crunch

“He crushed my egg!”

“Stop you’re spilling the sugar!”

“Quit stealing the --”

“Give me back --”

“Don’t take the ---”

“Look, can we all just --”

There was the wet crunch of a dropped carton of eggs.

“Now you’ve done it.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Ha! I’ve already got eggs in mine.”

“Me too, so there.”

“Hang on, is this the sugar?”

A thump and splashing, and the oven began beeping loudly.

“Gross! Who spilled the milk?”

“Where’s my pan?”

“That’s a pot.”

Metal clanging on metal.

“Your batter’s in my pan!”

“No, _you_ batter’s in _my_ pan.”

The whir of electric blades.

“Both of you give me that!”

“Oh no, it’s spilled.”

“Was that an egg?”

There was the tinkling of breaking glass.

“Nobody move!” Dick was almost shouting. The scuffling and scraping and arguing didn’t even halt.

“That’s wrong!”

“Nobody move, I’m getting the lights or there’ll be blood in the cakes.”

“No Grayson, don’t! This is for Pennyworth!”

“I know the light switch is here somewhere--”

“Tim don’t pour that into there!”

“Sorry!”

“Dami --”

“Jay, stop --”

“Look, guys --”

“WHERE IS THE LIGHT SWITCH?”

The lights flicked on. Alfred Pennyworth was standing in the doorway, his hand on the switch and both eyebrows raised at the sticky, flour dusted mess before him.

There was batter everywhere, bags and boxes sat exploded around the room, bowls and pans and utensils scattered over the island in the middle. One cabinet door was hanging by a hinge. The various separate ingredients covering every inch of counter, wall, and cupboard in the room. The children had not been spared; all were covering head to toe in the mess, right down to the egg Stephanie had been in the middle of mashing into Barbara’s hair.

“Master Damian, kindly release Master Richard.” -- Damian dropped off of Dick’s shoulders and released the death grip on his ear -- “And Master Timothy, the spatula was never intended to be used as a weapon that way, so please remove it from Master Jason’s nose.”

The children detached themselves from each other, murderous rage turning into shameful, powdery shuffling.

“Sorry Alfred,” Dick mumbled, echoed by much nodding and a quiet chorus of ‘sorry’s.

“The hour is very late, so go get cleaned up and go to bed, all of you. I shall decide the consequences for making a thorough mess of my kitchen in the morning.”

They all began to file quietly out, murmuring more apologies, and nobody noticed Cass silently closing the oven door behind them.

 

The next morning, everyone, including Bruce, sat around the large dining room table. Alfred stood at the head, an overly large covered silver platter sitting in front of him. Everyone kept glancing at it nervously.

“I would like you all to know that the atrocity that was my kitchen has been cleaned up,” Alfred announced.

The tension in the room increased. If Alfred wasn’t going to make them clean up, what terrible punishment awaited them?

“Your punishment,” Alfred continued, sensing the change in atmosphere, “is waiting under this cover. It was found in the oven this morning.”

With a flourish and a small smile, he removed the cover from the platter. Under it sat a huge, lumpy, and mottled… cake.

“This is the product of last night’s events,” said Alfred, producing a knife and a stack of plates. “I would hate to deprive you all of tasting the fruits of your labors.”

Soon, a slice of the multi-colored cake sat in front of each member of the family, but nobody had dared to even pick up their fork.

“Erm, Alfred,” Bruce interrupted the terrified silence that had begun to form, “are you sure it’s… safe?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Master Bruce. Perhaps you would like to be the first to find out.”

All eyes fixed on Bruce, who cleared his throat. Put on the spot, he had no choice to pick up his fork and take a bite. He chewed slowly while everyone looked on in horrified awe.

Bruce swallowed, and coughed twice. “It’s … good.”

“No way,” Tim said in a hushed voice.

Bruce shrugged and took another bite. In an instant everyone was digging into their their own plates.

“Oh my god, it tastes amazing,” Steph mumbled, her cheeks stuffed.

“I do not understand,” Damian muttered over his own plate, dissecting his piece with his fork and poking at the different colored patches. “I believe this portion is from my batter. It tastes of cinnamon.”

“Yeah, and I think this bit is my red velvet,” Babs said, leaning over and pointing with her fork.

While everyone laughed and clamoured excitedly over the cake, Alfred stepped quietly up beside Bruce.

“I would never, of course, serve anything that might be dangerous to your health, sir,” he said quietly.

“But Alfred, I thought you meant to punish them, not treat them.”

“It is a special treat for a very special occasion, sir.”

Bruce perked up. “Is today your birthday, Alfred?”

Alfred smiled benignly. “Not at all, sir, you’ve guessed wrong again this year.”

Bruce deflated. “Drat.”

“No, Master Bruce, the special occasion is having everyone together under one roof, enjoying themselves.” Alfred gestured gently to the happy table. “And for this you may thank a very clever young lady who thought to put all the salvageable batter in a pan and put it in the oven to bake.”

Alfred looked across the table at Cass and winked. Cass smiled delightedly and took another bite of cake.


End file.
